


Good Intent

by lielabell



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Noir, Attempted Rape, Character Death, F/M, M/M, Murder, Organized Crime, POV Second Person, Teen Wolf Reverse Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 07:04:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lielabell/pseuds/lielabell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s dark out, no moon tonight.  Just clouds and a bitter, cold wind that rips right through you as you move from shadow to shadow.  You’re hunting, because you are always hunting, and tonight’s prey is the best kind: not too smart, not too old, and worth enough to keep you in the black for the better part of a year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Intent

**Author's Note:**

> Play list and album art by the wonder and talented monsterjumper. I hope you like this one, bb!

It’s dark out, no moon tonight. Just clouds and a bitter, cold wind that rips right through you as you move from shadow to shadow. You’re hunting, because you are always hunting, and tonight’s prey is the best kind: not too smart, not too old, and worth enough to keep you in the black for the better part of a year. 

McCall. Scott McCall. Born August 15, 1991. Five feet ten, one hundred and sixty pounds. Brown eyes and hair. Well muscled. Skilled enough to be partnered with the one and only “Stiles” Stilinski, son of the infamous “Sheriff” Stilinski. 

Stilinski -- and, by default, McCall-- is rumored to be behind all the major heists of the last half decade, but no one can touch Stilinski without risking the wrath of Derek Hale. 

Hale is a sociopath if ever there was one, with more kills to his name than anyone else in his age range. No one’s going to risk getting him hot on their tail, which is what would happen if something happened to his favorite playmate. So it’s not him you're after, it’s his best friend. Because what does Hale care if you off his lover’s sidekick? McCall, he’s nothing to Hale. Nothing but an annoyance, according to your sources. Hale doesn’t have friends. Doesn’t understand the concept of them. Doesn’t understand why Stilinski has them either. Hale has complained loudly about McCall, gone as far as telling Stilinski to get rid of him before Hale gets rid of him permanently. 

And, far as you're concerned, that makes McCall fair game. 

A car drives by, splashing through the puddles and illuminating the street. You don’t hesitate, don’t flinch from the light, because walking normally draws for less attention than a sudden stop or, worse yet, a duck and dodge. The man behind the wheel gives you a smile and you pretend to be bashful, glancing down and then looking back. 

Sweet and innocent, that’s your angle. Smile a little, bat your eyes, look frightened if you have to. You can cry on command and then bodyslam your mark to the ground and zip tie his wrists together in two second flat. 

_Work with what you’ve got_ , your aunt use to tell you, her eyes hard but her smile as sweet as sugar. _Work with what you’ve got_. And you always have.

*

The light above the door is red and you try not to roll your eyes. Of course it is. Of course they play into all the contrivances, all the predictable stereotypes. But that will work to your advantage, make the story you’re aiming to sale all that more believable. 

You fidget before you knock on the door-- a place is sure to have a set of security cameras angled towards the entrance at all times-- and bite at your lips when a lanky man with tousled curls opens the door. He grins at you, looking up and down your body. 

“Can I help you with something?” he asks, his eyes resting on the spill of your breasts barely encased in your skimpy top.

“I hear you're looking for a dancer,” you say, gloved hands bunching in the fabric of your long coat. 

"So what if I am?” His voice is lazy, his gaze still firmly on your chest. 

You snap your fingers under his chin and then smile when he gives you a startled glance. “Let me rephrase that,” you say, deciding to shift your angle on the spot. “I’m the dancer you’re looking for. You going to let me in? Or do I need to audition out here in the night air.”

He laughs and then shows you in and you have to bite back a happy laugh, suppress how pleased you are that you read him right. He leads you past the dimly lit main room with it’s typical bar and stage set up, down a hall lined with doors and into a brightly lit office. 

There is a woman with big hair and bright red nails clacking away at a computer inside. She looks up when you enter, narrowing her eyes a bit as she takes in you in. She glances at your companion, who winks and then jerks his head towards the main room before heading out. He tosses you one last look as he leaves, flashing a wolfish smile, which you return. 

“New girl, huh?” she says, pushing her chair back and crossing her arms over her chest. “Alright then, mama, show me what you got.” 

She smirks, like she’s expecting you to balk, but you just drop your jacket and sway your hips to a non-existent beat. 

You let your eyes go half lidded and slink towards her, working free from your shirt as you do. It hits the ground a second before you reach her and she watches it fall with a predatory smile. You catch hold of the arms of her chair, turning it to face you, then you bend down. 

*

The blonde tells you her name is Erica and that they have to look into your background before they can offer you a spot. You smile and give her your current name and address, not bothered in the least. Your alias will hold up to inspection from the best in the business-- and Mr. Mahealani is just that. 

But he can look all he wants, there's nothing to find. As far as the world is concerned, you're nothing but a down on her luck, foster kid, who bounced from broken home to broken home until you aged out of the system. And as for the real you? She died in a fire five years ago. A fire your mother set the night she went crazy. Killed you, burned the hell out of your father, and earned herself a nice little spot in a maximum security wing of the nearest prison for the criminally insane. She didn't last long there, but that wasn't the point.

The point was you dead. Because only then would you be able to be alive. Because Hale doesn't play by the same rules as everyone else. Hale doesn't just stop with the person who hurt him. Doesn't matter who committed the crime, everyone is held accountable. No one is safe. Not a father. Or a brother. Or niece. Because when Hale goes after your blood, he takes it all. 

So Allison Argent "died" that night so that you could live. 

And all the digging in the world won't change that fact in the slightest.

*

It's Hale's club. It doesn't say so on any paper anyone could find, but it's Hale's club. 

You dance and spin, toss your hands in the air, your top going along with them, then bend at the waist and shimmy out of your skirt. The crowd goes wild as you flip your hair, tossing bills onto the stage when your panties finally drop to the floor. The music rises to a crescendo as you reach for the pole, flipping yourself up and over, your legs spread wide. 

Men cheer and clap, money flutters around you as you lower yourself to the ground. Then the music fades out and you're bending down, scooping up crumpled bills along with your costume. Someone's hand slides up your thigh and you turn your head towards the likely culprit, a teasing smile firmly in place.

"Touching cost extra," you say with a wink. "Let him know if you've willing to pay the price." 

You nod towards one of the bouncers, a tall dark skinned man with bulging muscles and a twisted gash of a smile. The man pulls his hand back with a 'no harm, no foul' gesture. It's directed at the bouncer, not you, but that doesn't matter, so long as he backs off. 

If he has the cash, you'll do it. It's Hale's club, Hale's rules and, as Erica explained, Hale likes it when his girls offer a little extra. So you'll do it, because this is your way in, the best way to get your prey. But that doesn't mean you're going to let someone cop a feel for free.

It's slow tonight, not many faces in the crowd, but you aren't doing this for the money. You're doing this for a chance to finally get revenge.

*

"Kate's dead," Gerard said, his voice as flat and cold as his eyes. "Peter Hale slit her throat." 

You let out a gasp and your father frowns. "Couldn't you have waited until Allison was out of the room?" he snarls. 

"Allison is old enough to know the truth," Gerard replies, his voice still emotionless, his eyes as dead as ever when he turns to you and smiles. 

It's the same smile he gives you when he tries to get you to call him grandpa, the smile that makes you want to run to your room and hide. But you're fourteen and three years into your training. Nothing scares you now. Not even your grandpa's smile.

"Why'd he kill her?" you hear yourself ask, and you are pleased that your voice doesn't shake at all.

He makes a disgusted face. "He contracted her to off his brother’s side of the family, take out any other contenders for the top spot in the the Hale cartel, and she did. All except the oldest boy, Derek. He must have been a looker, because Kate decided she'd rather fuck him than off him and now she's dead herself." He gives you a pointed look. "Learn from your aunt's stupidity, girl. You aren't being paid to get laid."

"Gerard!" Your father's voice is hard, angry. He takes a step forward, but your mother restrains him with a hand on his arm. 

"Chris," she says, her tone sharp. They lock eyes, communicating wordlessly. He grits his teeth, then sighs, and nods. 

He crosses over to you, and for a moment you think he's going in for a hug, but instead he grips your chin tight and forces you to meet his eyes. "Never forget who you are," he says, giving your chin a squeeze.

"I won't,” you promise. 

And you never have.

*

He comes in the first time on a Friday, trailing in the wake of Stilinski, who is himself following after Hale. 

McCall has a sweet face, soft eyes, and a crooked smile to match his slightly crooked jaw. He laughs loud and easy, his eyes bright as he watches Stilinski talk. He doesn’t look like a bad guy, like someone who should have a hit on his head. You feel a flash of something, bright and hot, under your breastbone as you watch him. 

You wonder how he manages to look like that, with the childhood he’s had. Father in the life, murdered when McCall was two years old; mother looking for protection and ending up being passed from man to man until she caught the eye of the Sheriff. From there things seemed to look up for him-- if you can call being inducted into one of the most powerful crime families in Southern California “looking up.”

The widowed Sheriff brought them into his home, had McCall raised up right along with his son. Taught the both of them everything he knew. By the time McCall was ten, he was running scams with the best of them, working the streets, keeping an eye out for trouble and proving himself as a contender. Then Stilinski and Hale started hooking up, turned themselves into the power couple no one wants to fuck with, and there was McCall, right in the thick of it, going along for the ride. 

He’s as hard as they come, as cold a killer as your grandfather, but when he smiles, you want to cuddle up next to him, put your head on that broad chest, and smile right on back.

It makes you hate him, the way his smile affects you. He can soften your resolve without even opening his mouth and that makes you rage inside, makes you want to bash in his beautiful face. 

McCall isn’t the boy next door. He's not wholesome at all, no matter how charming he might come off. That smile of his might make your heart flutter, but that doesn’t mean a damn thing. You won’t screw this up on account of a pretty face. You aren’t your aunt, spreading your legs for a job and then letting it go to your head. 

McCall is dead, has been since you took the contract. 

And nothing is going to change that. 

Nothing. 

*

It takes a week for you to catch his eye, a month to catch more than that. You work four nights a week, the three you have off are never in a row, and never seem to match up with when he's in town. But you don't mind. This job is a long haul, you told them that from the beginning, told them not to expect results for at least six months. More, if things didn't go according to plan. 

They didn't object, didn't even frown. Just handed over the money they owed you and nodded on their way out. 

You wondered at the time how many other people they had set this task, how many other times money had changed hands. Then you tucked that thought away and refused to examine it later.

It doesn't matter how many others have tried and failed. All that matters is that you are the one who will succeed. 

So you give him a smile whenever you see him, the secret sort that all men like to see. You give him a grin when he catches up with you in the hallway, cock your hip in his direction, and feed him that line about how it costs more to touch, then roll your eyes and flounce away when he tells you that's not what he's after. Because you're working a long haul, and sweet and simpering won't cut it with this one at all.

*

When your break finally comes, it’s on account of Hale. You could laugh at the irony of it. Of course it would be Hale who finally brings you into the circle. It’s been Hale’s call all along, after all. 

Hale, with his dead eyes and calculated smirk. He always watches you when you dance-- same as every other man in the joint-- but this time is different. This time there is actually something like heat in his eyes while he does it. When you finish, he lazily beckons you near. You come to his table, and give him a practiced smile, stepping into the vee of his legs as he spreads them wide. You slide your arms around his shoulders, press your breasts against his chest, and swivel your hips to the beat of the music. 

He runs his hands up and down your back, squeezes your ass, pulls you close until you can feel his dick rubbing against your stomach. It makes you want to gag, want to shove him away and scrub yourself clean. But you don’t. Hell no, you don’t. You just give him limpid eyes and move firmly against him until Stilinski grabs hold of your arm, fingers tight, nails digging in.

“Fuck off,” he snarls, shoving you away. 

You stumble and McCall reaches out to steady you. “You okay?” he asks, his brown eyes wide with concern.

“Who the fuck cares if she’s okay?” Stilinski scowls at his friend, tapping his finger on the tabletop in annoyance. 

“Go suck Derek’s dick,” McCall snaps back, giving Stilinski a dirty look. 

Stilinski flips him off, then turns his attention back to Hale. “Let’s get out of here,” he says, reaching down to run his fingers over the bulge in Hale’s jeans. Hale slaps his hand away, tosses back his drink, and then stands. He raises an eyebrow at Stilinski and then jerks his head towards the back room. Stilinski doesn’t need to be told twice, hopping to his feet and grinning like a loon. 

You pretend not watch them as you walk away, pretend not to thrill in the way McCall watches you.

*

Two hours later you're spinning round and round a pole, dropping to the floor and writhing as the crowd makes it rain. You roll onto your stomach, push up onto your hands and knees, and crawl towards the edge of the stage, where McCall is still watching, his eyes as hot as Hale’s were before. 

"Meet me after your shift," he says, his voice thick with want.

"It's still going to cost you," you tell him, "I don't care how tight you are with the boss." 

He smiles up at you, sweet as can be, and tells you he doesn't care, that he's going to buy all night. You laugh and shake your head, but you don't reply. You push to your feet instead, and strut your way back across the stage, gathering bills as you go.

*

Your rage sustains you, keeps you strong. Whenever McCall smiles at you, when he ducks his head and looks at you through those lashes of his, when your stupid bleeding heart skips a beat, you ground yourself in it. 

His mouth is hot on your skin and he sucks hard, tongue rubbing in slow circles around your nipple. You bite your lips, and then let out a moan, arching up into him. His fingers pluck at your other nipple, pinching and rolling it, making your whole body ache with want. 

You hate yourself for it, hate how easily he can do this to you, make you want it. Make you want _him_.

Your family is gone, you remind yourself. Wiped from the face of the earth. The name Argent has no meaning now, no power behind it. 

Every time you think about it, it makes you ache inside, makes you want to scream, claw at Hale's eyes. Makes you want to make him hurt the way you hurt.

Your family is gone, destroyed, and it’s all Hale’s fault. Hale should be the one here, panting between your legs. Hale should be the one whose back you dig your nails in. Hale should be the one slated for your blade. 

But he’s not. He’s off fucking Stilinski while McCall ruts between your legs. 

And that fact makes you burn, makes your fingers dig deep into the back they are gripping, makes you bite off a yell. 

A yell that McCall hear and smiles at, because he thinks he's caused it all on his own.

*

He slumps against you afterwards, his skin slick with sweat and his breath hot on your neck. His teeth graze your neck and you clutch at him, fingers digging tight into those strong shoulders. 

"What's your name?" he asks, his words barely above a growl. 

"Whatever you want it to be," you answer, and try not to laugh at the annoyed sound he makes in reply. 

"What's your name?" he asks again, pushing up onto his arms so that he can look into your eyes. 

"Amelia," you tell him. "Amelia. But you can call me Amy if you like."

*

He's not supposed to be sweet. He's not supposed to be kind. You've been around long enough now to know exactly what sort of a man Scott McCall is. Maybe he's not as ruthless as Hale or as brilliantly twisted as Stilinski, but McCall is not an innocent either. 

But then, neither are you. 

Neither were your parents, and they still loved each other.

It could be like that, this thing between you two. You can tell by the way he kisses your forehead after, holds you tight as he whispers the most innocent of secrets in your ear. His mother was a vegetarian. His favorite color is green. He likes to go to the symphony, has a box seat and everything. He tells you he'll take you sometime, and you bite your cheek so you won't laugh. You can't see his face, with him curled along your back, but you can feel him smile anyway. 

"I will," he says, his voice so earnest it hurts. "I will."

You tell him you believe him. And you do. Or, at least, you believe that he would, if he were given the chance. 

But the next concert series won't be until spring, and by then he'll be long dead.

*

It's been five months. 

You said you would have results in six. You could have results right now. It would be easy, so damn easy. Pick him off during one of his jobs. Hell, pick him off on the way to the club. You could do it at any time, you know his routine so well. 

It's been five months, and you are positioned exactly as you want to be, but you're no closer to your goal.

 _Is this what Kate felt like?_ you wonder, then laugh at yourself. Because Kate's dead, and if you don't keep up your end of the bargain, so are you.

You think about telling him, about whispering the truth in his ear. _There's a hit on you_ you would say. _There's a hit and I took it._ You imagine his shock, his disappointment when he realizes that all of this was a setup, that none of it was real. You know what would come next, his fists slamming hard into your face, his knife buried deep in belly. Something you even think it would be worth it, to have to...

You think about telling him all the time, but you never do. 

*

You walk slowly, putting a little extra sway in your hips, smiling at him like he's the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. McCall swallows, licks his lips nervously and then gives you a crooked grin. Something clenches inside of you at the sight, a pang of bitterness and regret. 

_We could have been good together_ , you think as you move onto the bed, knees pressing down into the blanket as you straddle him. _This could have been something real._

His hands come up, cupping your face, tilting your head at just the right angle. His mouth is soft against yours, his kiss tender in a way that surprised you at first but is familiar now. His fingers slide into your hair, tangle in the strands, tugging slightly. It is enough to send shivers down your spine, to make you rock your hips and moan into his mouth. 

He pulls back just far enough to smile at you, his eyes soft and it's all you can do not to cry. You have to do this. You have to. There is no way out. This isn't a fairy tale, there is no happy ending waiting for you. Either you do what they paid you to do, or you end up dead yourself. 

You bite down on your lip, screwing up your courage, then flash him a confident smile and push him back onto the bed. He laughs as he goes down, his hands resting on your hips. 

"I like it when you're forceful," he says, arching up against you. 

"I know you do," you reply, rolling your hips so that you rub against the hard length of him. His eyes fluttered shut as he groans and you know that this is it. There's never going to be a better moment than this.

You push forward, dropping your weight onto one hand as your other goes to the narrow space between the headboard and the wall, scrambling for the knife you have hidden there. You pull it free and slash down, but McCall isn’t where you thought he would be. 

You catch his side, knife scraping down along his ribs, and he grunts. For a moment you think you’re got him, but then he’s twisting under you, his fingers digging harshly into your hips as he leverages himself up and rolling you both. His elbow jabs hard into your abdomen, knocking your breath out of you as he slams you down onto your back. His hand wrenches the knife from your grasp.

"You stupid bitch," he snarls, his face contorted with rage. "You stupid, stupid bitch”

McCall gives you a disgusted look before casually backhanding you. Your head spins and you taste blood, but you refuse to make a sound. He thinks it’s over, that he can toy with you now, get as much satisfaction out of you as possible before slitting your throat. But he doesn’t know you, not really; doesn’t know that this is just the opening act, not the curtain call at all.

You let him hit you again and again, whimpering and crying like a child, flinching when his hands start to smooth down your sides. 

“Dumb cunt,” he says, his voice raw with pain and lust, his hard dick pressing eagerly against your belly. His smile is bloody, his fingers digging into you, holding you down, and you know what comes next. It's so hard not to smile back at him, not to let him know that you've already won. You force yourself to go completely limp, pretending to cower away from his touch. He laughs, pushing between your legs, tossing them up and over his shoulders. He grabs hold of himself, goes to guide it in, and you grin, sharp and feral. 

Your legs wrap tight around his neck, squeezing with all the strength you have, then you twist your hips and his neck gives a sickening pop-- his body instantly becoming the very definition of dead weight. 

_Work with what you’ve got_ , your aunt use to tell you, her eyes hard but her smile as sweet as sugar. _Work with what you’ve got_. 

And, once again, you have.

*

It’s dark out, no moon tonight. Just clouds and a bitter, cold wind that rips right through you as you move from shadow to shadow. You’re hunting, because you are always hunting. Your prey hasn’t been determined yet, but it doesn’t matter. You’ve made enough on your last job to keep you in the black for a good long while. 

There’s the sound of laughter in the distance, accompanied by soft music and the indistinguishable murmur of a crowd. You glance up at the moonless sky, staring at the stars, and think to yourself about the promise of a warm fire on a crisp fall night.

A car passes by you, splashing through the puddles and pulling you from your thoughts. You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and head south, towards home.

[Playlist here](http://www.mediafire.com/?4zezrqq24d7x3zj)

**Author's Note:**

> I agreed to do a pinch hit for the Teen Wolf Reverse Bang and was given this prompt by the powers that be: 
> 
> _Description: A gritty, neon, Drive-inspired modern noir._
> 
> I was actually pretty pleased with it because it's not what I would have ever picked for myself. I really pushed myself, writing this. I wanted the fic I wrote to match the dark undertones of both the prompt and the playlist. I hope that I managed to do that.
> 
> Thank you all for reading.


End file.
